


Stupidly Meaningless Souls

by friedgalaxies



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Reflection, Self-Reflection, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:43:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4677296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friedgalaxies/pseuds/friedgalaxies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spirit always said he couldn't handle himself, anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stupidly Meaningless Souls

Souls are simple things. They break, stretch, bend. They crack, become dark, corrupted. They shine, clear and bright. All in all, they are fragile things. Weak things. Frail enough to crush in a closed fist. They are ugly, twisted things. Never beautiful, never fair.

He ponders this, often, sitting alone. The lights dimmed, turning the screw in his head like an idle child. His computer glows in the dim, the stench of his ever present cigarette wafting through the stagnant air. Papers fall to the ground, meaningless numbers and words glaring at him through the cutting darkness. He sighs, his chair squeaking as he leans back, breathing through his nose. 

Souls are fragile things, after all. Meant to be crushed, twisted and used. Meant to be corrupted, dark, the carcass of what they had once been. Empty, dull, meaningless. 

Words float from his mouth, idiotic, regretful. Stupid. 

Meaningless. 

He plasters his face with false hope, true anger, stagnating thoughts. No one can see souls like him. Cannot see the ugly core, the twisted center, the true, dark, beauty. They all mean nothing to him, anyways. Ants to be crushed under foot. Hearts to break. Skin to turn to sandpaper. 

He’d wondered what it was like since he was a child. To hold a soul in his hands, know the person’s memories, their deepest hopes, wishes, dreams. Those weapons, they were so lucky. They touched souls everyday. Swallowed them without second thought. Slobbering on them like wild hogs, fumbling over them with useless fingers. He wants to touch, to cut, to break. 

To hold that twisted, ugly, truth in his hands without second thought. 

It’s a damn shame, really, to him. If they could see, could feel, could know, like he can. Their idiotic mumblings might stop, whispering behind hands, as if he can’t see them. As if he doesn’t know what he looks like. How he acts. 

They could never know, anyways. 

That’s what he thought, at first. Till he met her. Maka, Spirit’s girl. As soon as he saw her, he knew. The way she held herself, the way she talked, how she knew. She could see like him. He wasn’t alone. 

When he met her, at first, the only thing he could think of was her skill. To summon Witch Hunter with a scythe as wily as her own? Pure magic. Pure talent. Pure sin. 

His skin tingled with fear. Fear of the unknown, of companionship, of someone truly knowing. Knowing what his soul looked like. Who he was. What he knew. His flaws. His weaknesses. 

He’d never been scared before. Not even at horror stories of kishins, never flinching at Death’s rages, never turning away from the ugliest of kishin eggs. So why did she scare him so? 

She could see his truth. And that terrified him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, please leave a kudos or a comment telling me what you thought or what I can do better. Feedback is appreciated!


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